When he pulls away it is, as before, only a few inches; only enough to see that small warm smile instead of kissing it, and to meet her eyes again with warmth of his own.

He should say something, he thinks vaguely, but no words spring to mind. So he only leaves his hand resting against her skin, and tips his head slightly into her touch, and distantly hopes he isn't smiling too much like an idiot.

(He's not. But he is smiling, and that pleased contented look isn't likely to go away any time soon.)